Page 96 of Dirty Husband

This time, he works me through my orgasm.

Once I'm finished, he releases me. But only for a moment. For long enough for him to adjust his clothes.

He loops something around my wrist. His tie.

"One palm on top of the other," he commands. When I do it, he cinches a knot. Loose. Then just tight enough I know I'm bound.

My wrists by his tie. My thighs by my dress. My entire body splayed over the table.

I'm completely at his mercy. His, to use however he sees fit.

And, God, I want it so badly. Even though I came twice, I want more. I'm achy and empty and utterly in need of him.

"Shepard," I breathe. "Please."

"Please what, princess?"

"Fuck me. Please." I can't remember our game. What I'm playing. If I'm trying to rile him or soothe him. But I don't care. I only care about getting his cock inside me.

"Please?"

"Please, sir. I want you inside of me. I want to feel you come."

He reaches back and unzips his slacks. "You want to feel me come?" he asks it again, but with a clearer voice. Almost a break of character.

It takes a moment to catch his meaning. We've talked about being safe. How we don't need a condom. But we haven't specifically outlined that. "Yes. Nothing else. Just you." My sex pangs. "Please. Sir."

He brings both hands to my hips, pulls them up, into the air. "You're greedy, princess."

"Yes, sir," I breathe.

He pulls me a little higher as he shifts a little closer. His cock brushes my sex. Just barely.

My entire body whines. I've never been so empty. I've never needed anything this badly.

He pulls back and does it again.

And again.

Then, without warning, he drives into me hard enough he pins me to the table.

I reach for something, but my wrists are bound. I try to spread my legs, but my dress is at my thighs. I try to arch my back, but he's already driving into me again.

Fuck. That feels so good.

His nails scrape my hip. Then the other hip. He holds me in place as he drives into me again.

My sex whines for more. But the table against my face? Ow. I turn my head to the other cheek, but it's no help. The same slick surface.

Shep shifts, doing something to his clothes.

He tugs at my wrists, at the tie holding them together, then he slips his suit jacket onto the table, and lowers me onto the fabric. "Turn your head."

I do.

He bunches the jacket, making a softer padding.

He sets me down gently.